


The Commonplace Unreal

by shellfishDimes



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Gunplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:12:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellfishDimes/pseuds/shellfishDimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The intense, almost arrogant way Pagan is looking at him is completely at odds with where he is, on his knees in his ridiculously expensive, bespoke trousers, and it rankles Ajay in a way he can't describe that Pagan didn't even pull them up before his knees hit the floor. Pagan, who throws what in someone less sadistic, less prone to casual homicide would be considered temper tantrums if he gets the smallest stain on his cuffs, kneels without a care for dust, splinters, or any number of things that could befall his precious wardrobe, and it makes Ajay's stomach knot with nerves and something he isn't ready to put a name to yet, even though he knows <i>exactly</i> what it is, and it makes him grip his gun tighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Commonplace Unreal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madanach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/gifts), [Jagged](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jagged/gifts).



"I've given you Kyrat, but I'm keeping the helicopter!" Pagan yells, and the timing is almost perfect — the helicopter is already too high up for Ajay to do anything except shoot it down. There's a part of him that considers it, that makes him see all the weak points he could hit in a second: the pilot, the blades in the tail, Pagan. He could do it, too. He's got the sniper rifle that has the power to stop an elephant with just one shot, he's got the souped up LMG that tears through metal like butter.

Pagan, just sitting there directly in Ajay's line of fire, not even strapped in yet, is expecting him to do it. Pagan doesn't know Ajay didn't kill De Pleur, or Noore, or Sabal. He doesn't know Ajay didn't slam the trunk down on De Pleur's fingers, although the man deserved it. He doesn't know Ajay tried to stop Noore from throwing herself into the arena, for all the good that it did. Nobody, not even Amita, knows that Sabal is still alive. As far as Pagan is concerned, they're all dead, and Ajay is responsible for it — Ajay the murderous lunatic, not Ajay the devoted son, and it's that Ajay who Pagan expects to pull the trigger.

What Pagan doesn't expect, what even Ajay doesn't expect until he's doing it, is that he'll wait until the helicopter's turned a corner, and launch himself off the low wall and right through the open door of the thing. He's jumped further than that before, but for a terrifying second it seems like he won't make it, his heels slipping on the edge. But then he catches himself, regains his balance. He doesn't even look at Pagan, who isn't showing any sign of alarm. He goes straight to the pilot and presses the still-warm muzzle of his M1911 into the back of the man's neck. 

"Turn it around!" he yells over the loud noise of the spinning blades. "Land it!" He reaches for the man's own handgun with his free hand and hits the magazine release button, kicking the magazine away and throwing the empty gun out of the helicopter. His stomach heaves as he realises that if he's not _very_ careful with his balance, he could fall to a very sticky and very painful death on the rocks below. He braces both his feet on the metal floor, praying his shoes give him enough grip, and for the second time in less than ten minutes, points his gun at Pagan's head.

"You're not going anywhere!" he shouts, the wind snatching his words from his mouth. He's spent so long doing almost exactly what Pagan wanted, but no more. From now on, they're doing everything on Ajay's terms. 

As the helicopter starts to slowly turn, Pagan regards Ajay calmly, and begins to strap himself in. 

"All right," he says in that Benevolent King tone of voice that carries his words perfectly well despite the whooshing of the wind and the whirring of the helicopter. "But you'd better stop playing the action hero and _sit down_ before you fall out!"

Ajay sits opposite Pagan, gun back to being fixed on the pilot. He stares Pagan down until the helicopter has safely landed back in the palace courtyard. Pagan, for his part, sits as calmly as anything, right ankle on left knee, like this whole thing is just another part of his daily routine. Ajay doesn't let himself be fooled by it, and doesn't let his hand shake as he holds the gun. 

When the blades have stopped spinning and the pilot has killed the engine, Pagan pulls out a tiny revolver from where it was strapped to his ankle and shoots the man through the back of the skull. His blood splatters warmly across the side of Ajay's face, but Ajay is already on his feet with both hands on the M1911, aiming it at Pagan, finger on the trigger.

"That's your first lesson," says Pagan, taking the rest of the bullets out of his revolver with exaggerated calmness. "Never hold onto employees who are willing to disobey your direct order just because someone points a gun at them." He keeps the bullets in his palm for a moment and then tosses them out onto the ground, like rice at a wedding. He holds the gun out to Ajay, grip first, and when Ajay doesn't immediately take it, Pagan shakes it in front of him, like Ajay's a dog with a short attention span. "Come on then, boy," he says, impatient. "Disarm me."

Ajay takes the tiny revolver from him. It weighs barely anything in his hand. It's gold plated, and the handle is made out of what he's pretty sure is genuine ivory, because it's Pagan's after all, so _of course_ it would be.

"Feel free to keep it," Pagan says. "Think of it as a coronation present, and a second lesson." Pagan gets up and pulls his jacket down, smoothing out the creases. "Always let them think you've got fewer weapons on you than you do."

  


* * *

  


So Pagan stays in the palace, and as far as anyone outside its walls is concerned, he's dead and gone. Out of sight is, after all, out of mind, and when the Golden Path finish Ajay's job and tear down or burn the rest of Pagan's propaganda, his reign is just another bitter memory. Its remnants are still everywhere around, though, and Ajay spends the next couple of months trying to broker a peace treaty between the Golden Path and those parts of the Royal Army that are willing to stand with him. He hates the word _king_ when they try and apply it to him, but _president_ is wrong because killing everyone who gets in your way and having bigger guns than the other guy doesn't mean democracy, and _dictator,_ or worse, _warlord,_ are two titles he doesn't even want to consider. Really, when he thinks about it, _king_ is the least bad of them. So _king_ it remains.

He and Pagan fight, constantly. Pagan keeps his distance, both physically because he asks all his things to be moved to a different corner of the palace so Ajay can have his old royal apartments, and when it comes to running Kyrat. He lets Ajay make his own decisions, which frequently turn into mistakes because Ajay is the first person to admit he's better at fixing cars than fixing an entire country. And then, when it all blows up in Ajay's face, Pagan appears, ostensibly, it seems to Ajay, to outline all his mistakes to him in a voice that starts out placid and even-tempered, and builds as Pagan accuses Ajay of being idealistic, of being an incurable romantic, of being so pigheadedly _American,_ and builds until Pagan's spitting sentences at him like a snake spits its venom.

Ajay says nothing at all, anger percolating under his skin, and continues to say nothing until Pagan suddenly looks down, his tirade interrupted by Ajay's M1911 pressing into his gut.

Ajay can see the amused, lazy smirk tugging at the corner of Pagan's lips before it even finished forming, but he's quicker. He moves the gun up Pagan's chest, pushing the muzzle into the soft skin underneath Pagan's chin, tilting his head up with the barrel.

Ajay releases the safety.

He pulls back the hammer.

"My dear boy," Pagan says, his voice losing its livid, slightly hysterical edge and turning placating in such a familiar way that Ajay is _sure_ he's mocking him, "you already pulled a gun on me twice and didn't shoot, why would you do it now?"

Ajay jerks his arm away and shoots a 18th century Qianlong vase right through its fat middle. It explodes into beautifully decorated, colourful porcelain pieces and their tinkle against the floor sounds that much better because Ajay knows it cost Pagan 85 and a half million dollars, and because Pagan had spent a good couple of minutes the other day describing the incredible detail of the pattern and the exquisite craftsmanship to him.

The incredibly detailed pattern lies in shards on the ground.

"Try me," Ajay says.

Pagan laughs, uproarious and delighted, his amusement bouncing off the corners of the room and back to Ajay's ears. If it was anyone else, anyone else at all, Ajay would have shot them there and then. Or he would have hit them over the head with the butt of the gun to knock them to the ground, and _then_ shot them, for good measure.

Because it's Pagan, he turns the gun on him again. Because it's Pagan, who has the most laid back approach to having guns pointed at him Ajay has seen in anyone, he pushes it against Pagan's cheek for good measure, the muzzle just below his left eye. And because it's Pagan, his closed mouth spreads into a smile, and then he purses his lips and it takes Ajay a moment to realise Pagan's kissed the barrel of the gun.

Ajay's insides twist into that painfully familiar knot of thrumming anxiety and pulsing, brewing anger that he feels so often when it comes to Pagan, but never before in this kind of combination, because he's never before been faced with Pagan Min kissing the barrel of his M1911 with such a blatant disregard of the fact that Ajay could blow his brains out at any moment. He has, however, consistently been faced with Pagan Min pushing all his buttons just for the fun of it, to see which one would provoke the biggest reaction from him.

He has taken Pagan's entire kingdom out from under him and Pagan still treats him like Ajay's a bumbling teenager. He refuses to believe that Pagan had simply _given_ him Kyrat, because fighting tooth and nail and clawing his way from the south all the way to the north, one outpost at a time, one body at a time — that doesn't feel like a gift. It feels _earned,_ and while Ajay doesn't want praise, not for something that still gives him nightmares, he doesn't want this either, Pagan treating him like he's an adorable puppy which keeps bumping into walls as it learns how to walk.

He pushes the muzzle into Pagan's cheek, in a way that he knows has to hurt, metal still hot from the shot, and he watches Pagan kneel, never breaking eye contact with him. 

_He cut the throat of a prince as he was giving him the throne,_ Ajay thinks. _He let him bleed out at his feet and named himself king._ Sometimes, he forgets that, but not when Pagan's eyes are like this. _Watch him,_ Ajay thinks. _He might do the same to you._

The intense, almost arrogant way Pagan is looking at him is completely at odds with where he is, on his knees in his ridiculously expensive, bespoke trousers, and it rankles Ajay in a way he can't describe that Pagan didn't even pull them up before his knees hit the floor. Pagan, who throws what in someone less sadistic, less prone to casual homicide would be considered temper tantrums if he gets the smallest stain on his cuffs, kneels without a care for dust, splinters, or any number of things that could befall his precious wardrobe, and it makes Ajay's stomach knot with nerves and something he isn't ready to put a name to yet, even though he knows _exactly_ what it is, and it makes him grip his gun tighter. 

How close the gun is to Pagan's mouth is suddenly making him uncomfortable, and for a second he falters and goes to pull the gun away. He's aware it has very little to do with nerves, and a lot to do with that other feeling simmering in the pit of his stomach. 

He moves his hand, and Pagan leans forward and captures the tip of the gun between his lips. And Ajay knows he should probably pull away, because that's what he's been trying to do, but he stays stock still.

There's an audible click as Ajay puts the safety back on, but he doesn't move the gun out of Pagan's mouth.

Ajay doesn't say anything — he doesn't think he can, and what's perhaps worse, so much worse that he feels the cold sweat at the base of his spine, is that he doesn't think he _needs_ to, because Pagan's eyes crinkle with amusement for a heart-stopping moment, and then he sucks the barrel further into his mouth. He holds Ajay's gaze as his lips slide up and down the metal, his cheeks hollowed. Ajay opens his mouth on reflex, because there's no way breathing just through his nose will cut it, not with Pagan's lips around his M1911 like it's a cock. And _oh,_ Ajay thinks, he didn't need to think that right now, not when he can see Pagan's tongue snake out to trace the grooves in the metal.

The silence of the room hits him. He realises this is the longest he's gone in Pagan's company without any of them saying anything. The only sound is his own heavy breathing, and Ajay wishes it wasn't so loud, and the slick sounds Pagan's mouth makes against the gun, and Ajay wishes it didn't make his breathing even louder and heavier.

The feeling he tried to ignore is still there, like hot glowing embers in his gut, and he tries to keep it under control because he can feel himself growing hard in his trousers at just this, Pagan on his knees and the metal of the barrel shining with his spit. That part of him that makes his chest tight with anxiety and embarrassment makes a thought spark across his mind, and he imagines pushing the barrel further into Pagan's mouth until Pagan chokes, until tears well in his eyes and he ruins his make-up. It gives him a rush, imagining Pagan's impeccable exterior disrupted like that, out of his control.

He prays that Pagan doesn't see how he sucks his lips past his teeth and squeezes them together to chase those thoughts away, because he doesn't want to think how they even got there in the first place, how they're so sharply vivid they make his cock react immediately.

He doesn't have to worry about Pagan looking at his face, because Pagan's gaze drops right to the bulge in Ajay's trousers. He raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow in question, and Ajay has never felt this exposed, not even when he was thrown completely naked into the Shanath arena.

Ajay's hand twitches, and the gun clacks against Pagan's teeth in a way that he swears he can feel in his own mouth. He pulls it out quickly, panicked, but of course the safety is still on. Of course his finger has been on the trigger guard the entire time, so close to Pagan's lips while the gun was in his mouth. Pagan's lips, which he keeps slack and open and he doesn't lick them, and Ajay _knows_ Pagan does it on purpose so he can see how wet Pagan's mouth is.

The gun slides against Pagan's cheek, almost like the weapon is guiding Ajay's hand, and the temptation to push it back in and fuck Pagan's mouth with it terrifies Ajay to the point of light-headedness, and what's worse, makes his cock stiffen. To say it unnerves and confuses him would be selling those feelings short, because he's sure he's never felt anything close to this, so completely out of his depth and blindsided both by how much he wants to keep it going, and how much it scares him just how far he could push it if he tried. 

And Pagan looks like he's waiting for exactly that, in his pink trousers and his silk shirt — no jacket today, and maybe that's better, because without the jacket he seems less like the monstrous dictator Ajay first saw, a lifetime ago, sitting on the ground with blood dripping from his fountain pen, and maybe that's worse, because without the jacket he seems more human. 

Pagan's shirt is unbuttoned down low, his collar spread loose the way it always is, but the angle from which Ajay is looking at it makes it seem obscene in a way he's never considered before. It's hot in the room, and a bead of sweat slides between Pagan's collarbones, down his sternum and out of sight, and Ajay can't calm his breathing.

He slides the tip of the barrel along Pagan's lower lip, watching what he'll do, wondering how the _fuck_ they got here. He has never even thought about kissing Pagan, let alone having Pagan on his knees in front of him, fellating his gun. 

"Well," Pagan says, voice hoarse, and he looks far too pleased with himself than he has any right to be, "that's one for the books."

"Shut up," says Ajay, and it scares him how angry he sounds, how heavy with arousal, but it doesn't scare him enough to stop what he's doing. He pushes the barrel back into Pagan's mouth as deep as it goes, until the finger he has on the trigger guard presses against Pagan's lower lip and until he can feel the muzzle hit the back of Pagan's throat.

Pagan gags, and Ajay pulls the gun away just a little to let him breathe, but Pagan recovers quickly, inhaling through his nose and managing to keep himself in check. He sucks the gun down again, cheeks hollow, mouth tight on the dark, spit-slicked metal. Ajay pulls it out a bit more, pushes it in a bit deeper, almost enough to make Pagan gag again, but he lets him have that breath. He slides the gun up and down his tongue and Pagan takes it, letting Ajay fuck his mouth.

Ajay imagines what it must taste like — metal and gunpowder, and oil because he takes good care of his guns — heavy on Pagan's tongue, sour and grit. But Pagan still takes it, and when Ajay twists his wrist and pushes it in, his cheek bulges when the muzzle presses into it from the inside. Pagan chooses that moment to make eye contact with Ajay again before Ajay has the chance to look away, and the look in Pagan's eyes is a challenge. 

Ajay doesn't back down from it.

He takes the gun out of Pagan's mouth with a vulgar, wet sound. He grabs Pagan's bleached hair, yanking him up by the roots, enough for him to straighten up while remaining on his knees. And Pagan doesn't even close his mouth, he just _waits._

When Ajay kisses him, Pagan's mouth tastes like the grease of oil and the tang of metal, a taste so vile to Ajay he wants to turn his head away and spit. But Pagan keeps him where he is, his teeth pulling on Ajay's lips, tongue curling against Ajay's with a confidence nobody should have when they're on their knees, and with a ferocity that makes Ajay dig his gun deeper into the flesh of Pagan's shoulder, because it's easier to do that than think about the heat coiling in his stomach, pulsing in his groin.

He wrenches his mouth away from Pagan's, gulping down air. Pagan pushes his face into Ajay's lower stomach, his nose pressed into the fabric of Ajay's clothes. When he swallows, Ajay can feel the movement of Pagan's throat against his clothed erection.

"Jesus," Ajay hisses.

"Don't you mean, Kyra?" Pagan teases, chuckling. His throat must be raw, because the sound comes out raspy and harsh. His warm breath tickles the exposed skin of Ajay's midriff where his shirt rides up. He feels Pagan licking his lips, the back of his tongue briefly skimming over Ajay's stomach and leaving a wet spot in its wake that feels cooler than the rest of Ajay's skin, which feels like it's burning.

After seeing what Pagan's done to the gun, after feeling how he kisses, Ajay wants to feel Pagan's mouth on his cock. The thought is alarming, the want behind it even more so. He can't logically explain to himself how he got here, from being livid with Pagan to wanting to see him swallow down his cock, but it has a lot to do with the gun and the way Pagan's lips slid down its length. It has _everything_ to do with the gun.

Ajay presses the gun to Pagan's pulse point until Pagan winces, huffing out a frustrated breath. He has no idea how to ask for what he wants, because this has not been about asking for permission, but pushing to see how far it goes, and they've taken it so far that Ajay feels too tangled up in it to be able to stop. 

He tilts the gun to the underside of Pagan's jaw, and says, "I told you to shut up."

The safety clicks off.

Pagan smirks with the briefest flash of teeth. Ajay has seen Pagan's face look smug more often than he can count, and he knows the particulars of that expression well enough to know that this isn't it. With the muzzle of a gun that could fire at any second pressing into his throat, Pagan looks _proud._ At this point, Ajay is good enough at reading his face to know that Pagan is proud of _him,_ and it — it's fucked up, that this kind of thing is what it takes for Pagan to look at him like that. It's even more fucked up that Ajay _likes_ it, so much that his breath catches, and that when Pagan leans in again, when his nose touches the hem of Ajay's trousers and his mouth is against Ajay's zipper, Ajay removes the gun from his jaw and places it just above the heart, and he lets Pagan stay there.

Ajay closes his eyes. Above his own laboured breathing, he hears the zipper slide down.

Pagan pops the button on Ajay's trousers open and pulls them down off his hips. His thumbs run over the jut of Ajay's hipbones, careful, reverent. Ajay can feel Pagan's hands tremble slightly as they skirt over his skin, and it makes him wonder just how much Pagan hasn't told him. How he kisses the skin below Ajay's bellybutton, how he breathes warmly on it when Ajay can't help but draw in a deep, tense breath, every movement shows that this is something Pagan has thought about before, touching Ajay like this. It must all be tied up in the past for Pagan to think of him like this, twisted together with the memories of his mother that must hurt like ripping open an old wound every time Pagan meets Ajay's eyes, exactly like his mother's, and this is not something Ajay wants to be thinking about while Pagan's fingers slowly push his underwear down.

He feels his cock bob free. Pagan's breath is on the head, he's _that_ close. And then he feels Pagan's tongue lick him, take him into his mouth, and the wet heat of it is enough of a distraction that Ajay can hardly think of anything else. This is the first time anyone has touched Ajay in months, and it's _Pagan,_ and the perfect, tight way his lips slide up and down his length makes Ajay open his eyes.

Pagan looks... _enraptured_ is probably a bad word for it, because it's heavy with connotations that this is something Pagan has wanted to do for a good, long while, longer than Ajay can think about without pangs of something he can't name making his chest ache, something far too close to sympathy to be comfortable.

Pagan's eyes are closed, so Ajay can see his perfectly drawn eyeliner. His hair is messy from when Ajay yanked on it earlier, and he has an inexplicable urge to smooth it down, and an even bigger one to card his fingers through it and pull at it with his free hand, guide Pagan to take his cock deeper because he knows that he can, he's seen how he took the gun. The thought that makes him bite down on his lower lip and suck breath in through his teeth is that he doesn't doubt that Pagan would let him use his mouth in any way he wants.

Ajay groans, sudden and loud, because Pagan's taken to squeezing the base of his cock and jerking him with sharp strokes. He pulls his lips off Ajay's cock and starts teasing the head with short licks, the tip of his tongue pushing into the slit, and he chooses that moment to open his eyes and look straight up into Ajay's, like he knows Ajay was watching. 

Ajay can't stop himself, he thrusts his hips at that, and the sight of the head of his cock sliding along Pagan's lips before Pagan takes it into his mouth again makes him moan loudly, and he has to cover his mouth with his hand to muffle it, to muffle his heavy breathing. He can feel how sweaty his hands have got, making his fingers slip on the grip of the gun. It sends his heart thumping even faster, the fact that he could actually shoot Pagan if he isn't careful, but he doesn't switch the safety back on. He holds the gun tighter, pressing the muzzle harder into Pagan's chest until Pagan makes a noise that Ajay can _feel_ on his cock, and it's not a noise of protest, so Ajay doesn't relent his grip. 

He rubs his hand over his face, running his fingers through his hair as Pagan takes him in deeper, his tongue flat along the underside of Ajay's cock, and when he starts bobbing up and down, the slide of it makes Ajay pull on his own hair to distract himself from moaning again. Pagan moves his hand from Ajay's hip to play with his balls, rolling them in his palm until Ajay's shaking, and his hips are twitching forward. He can feel the head of his cock hit the back of Pagan's throat, so tight and hot he doesn't even try to stop the string of moans spilling from his mouth this time.

And Pagan _takes_ it, that's the thing, just like he took the gun. He lets Ajay fuck his mouth, even though Ajay's thrusts are erratic and clumsy, even though Pagan's jaw and throat must hurt after all of this. His other hand holds onto Ajay's hip, pressing in every time he needs Ajay to slow down so he can have time to breathe, but mostly, he just lets Ajay thrust. When Ajay looks down at him, Pagan's cheeks are flushed red under his foundation, his lips — and even, Ajay realises with his stomach tightening, his chin — shiny with saliva. He keeps looking up at Ajay, and Ajay imagines grabbing his hair, pulling him off his cock and coming on his face, on his silk shirt, and he groans, so loud it's almost a shout. Pagan massages his balls, and Ajay can feel how heavy they are in his hand, how close he is.

"I'm gonna come—" he stutters out, "Pagan, please, let me—"

Pagan's hand grabs his hip to still him, and Ajay is grateful for it because he knows he's too far gone to stop thrusting on his own. Pagan slides his lips along Ajay's cock, and the slightest graze of his teeth against the sensitive skin is enough to make Ajay moan loudly, voice breaking. He feels his balls tighten in Pagan's fingers and his cock twitch between Pagan's lips, and then he's coming in Pagan's mouth, down his throat, and Pagan doesn't pull off but keeps sucking him through it, his lips tight on the shaft. 

When it's done, Pagan pulls off gently, licking his swollen lips and wiping the rest with the back of his hand. He kisses the head of Ajay's softening cock and tucks him back into his underwear, pulling his trousers back onto his hips and zipping him back up, and Ajay finally clicks the safety back on the gun, puts it away with his fingers barely shaking. 

As Pagan gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders and massaging his neck, Ajay sees he's still flushed, sees how fast his chest is rising and sinking. He tries to say something, but what can he say? _Thanks for letting me come in your mouth? Sorry I ruined your throat?_ Or, Ajay thinks as he lets his eyes slide down and then very, very quickly back up again, _Do you want me to take care of that?_

Before he can think of anything else, Pagan leans over and kisses his forehead, and it feels like praise for a job well done, and it's so at odds with everything before it that it almost makes Ajay blush.

"There, aren't you feeling better now?" Pagan says, and his voice is so hoarse Ajay thinks that only a handwritten, sincere letter, and perhaps some sort of gift basket as well, would suffice as an apology. 

"I—"

"Of course you are," Pagan agrees. He massages his jaw experimentally. "Withdrawing from the public eye keeps having unexpected merits. I can't tell you how delighted I am because I don't have to keep my voice suitable for public speeches anymore. It used to put a terrible damper on some of my hobbies."

"Um," Ajay tries, "do you want me to—"

"What I want, Ajay, is several tablespoons of honey, chased with some lemon and a _fucking_ gin and tonic," says Pagan. "I'm going to freshen up, and you will wait here until I come back." When he sees Ajay's expression, his own softens. "Don't look so glum, boy, it doesn't suit you. Speaking of what doesn't suit you, we absolutely must discuss your wardrobe. That get-up might have worked when you were destroying this country's infrastructure with your little terrorist friends, but now that you're king, it will simply _not_ do. While I'm gone, think about your favourite colours. I think muted gold and red would set your eyes off quite nicely. And, Ajay?"

"Yes?"

"If the word _denim_ even crosses your mind, I'm going to strip those off you and feed them to bears," Pagan says, pointing at his jeans.

When he's gone, Ajay sinks into a chair, buries his face in his hands, and groans.

He is _so_ fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://elenei.tumblr.com), and in hell. oh, and if you were curious, here's [that vase](http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/artsales/8127919/Chinese-vase-sells-for-world-record-breaking-53.1-million-at-auction.html) ajay shot.


End file.
